Not so Shakespearean
by Pinned back Wings
Summary: Ophelia always knew there was no such thing as a happy ending, so when John moves in with a high-functioning sociopath she only sees this going one way. He won't mind if she checks up on him, right? Well, at least Mrs. Hudson won't. Eventual Sherlock/OC \\rating my change/
1. Prologue: The Tragedy

**Not so ****Shakespearean**

**Author's Note**: This plot line came to me as I was writing my other Sherlock fic, _Hide and_ Seek, and I hope you enjoy this one just as much as _Hide and Seek__._ Both of these will be primary stories.

* * *

Prologue: The Tragedy

* * *

William Shakespeare had always been one of her favorite writers, whether it be his comedies or sonnets; however, she was more found of his tragedies. _Romeo and Juilet_ to be exact. It was something about the forbidden love of the star-crossed lovers that got her, and she could never place her finger on what it was. Perhaps it was because she wanted a romance like that: love at first sight, someone who would give up everything for her; or maybe it was that it didn't have a happy ending. _"Real life never has happy endings,__" _her mother would often say after picking up another drink; she thought it the latter.

So why did she have a sinking feeling when she saw Sherlock Holmes atop the rooftop of the hospital? She felt the immediate need to vomit up her lunch, to scream and plead, but was planted firmly by just a point of his finger.

"_Tell your sister to stay in that spot John, I don't_ - " did his voice crack? She whipped her head towards her brother, tears brimming in her eyes that silently pleaded with him.

"All right." John looked at her, fear ripping through him as well.

"_Keep yours eyes fixed on me_," she could hear the frantic tone rear its ugly head, "_please, will you do this for me?_" Tears dripped down her face in narrow streams, her nose dripped as well, _"wipe your face, you look like a child."_ His words rang through her head so using the back of her jumper, she wiped away the liquid. She could barely make out Sherlock's face, barely see the sad smile.

"Do what?" John asked slowly looking at his best friend, teetering on the roof.

"_This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?_" John paused, taking the phone away from his head and shook it, suddenly stopping and watched his friend. Her eyes widened at what Sherlock was implying, looking up at him and screaming: "Sherlock please! Don't do this!" Sherlock lifted his finger up his mouth, silencing her. Sobs racked her body.

"Leave a note, when?" John ventured, taking his sister's hand into his own and squeezing it.

"_Goodbye, John_ - " a pause, "_Ophelia_." The next few moments seem to go in slow motion. His gaze lingered on the Watson duo for a few moments before lowering his arm to drop the phone, and gazed forwards. John lowered the phone: "No," he whispered at first, "Sherlock!" A scream ripped from Ophelia's throat as she saw Sherlock spread his arms wide and plummet straight down to the ground, "Sherlock!" Ophelia took off not even caring as her heels were ripped from her feet; the bottoms of her feet slammed against the pavement as she rushed to get to his side. John was just beside her as a group of cyclists came from behind them, plowing thru the two of them. They effectively knocked John to the ground, his head slamming on the pavement while Ophelia was bounced off one and into another, the last cyclist of the group running over her ankle.

She would've screamed, the pain was so intense and the throb was unbearable, but she couldn't. _She needed to get to Sherlock_. John was woozy as he picked himself off the ground as did Ophelia, the pained sobs echoed as she limped beside her brother. "Sherlock," John whispered under his breath, the pain and sadness clear, "Sherlock." He said louder as he made his way to the gathering crowd. Ophelia was there before him, almost beside herself as she pushed her way through. Mascara ran down her cheeks in fat globs and her knees stung, "he's my friend, please." Ophelia pleaded, hearing John just behind her tell the crowd: "I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." The crowd pushed them back before John cried out: "No, he's my friend! He's my friend, please!" John breaks through before Ophelia can. His hands immediately go for his wrist, checking for a pulse even though a thick, red pool lay under his friend's head. Ophelia collapsed just beside John, lowering her head to Sherlock's just so their foreheads touch, "no please, John," she looks up, begging, "please do something, anything!"

His fingers are frantically searching for anything, but before he can do anymore a woman comes over, peeling his fingers off of Sherlock's wrist and another man comes behind Ophelia, taking her by the shoulders and holding her back. "Please no! Please I love him." She cried, fighting against the bindings of the man's hands.

"No, please just let me," there are more medics that arrived, one of them pushed a wheeled stretcher over, and another two surround Sherlock's body before gently pushing him on his back. His pale skin covered in blood, his silvery eyes wide and dull; Ophelia sobbed again, "Jesus, no!" She collapses into herself, her head immediately lowering to her knees as her mind forgoes the pain erupting in her ankle. John slumps backwards as he tries to stand, "no." He whispered just as they wheeled him off. He shakes off the people trying to help him up and shakily goes over to his sister's side, soothing her by rubbing her back in soft circles; his eyes looking in the direction that Sherlock was carried off in.

Ophelia's chest racking sobs filled the air. Why. Why did this happen?


	2. Chapter 1

**Not so Shakespearean**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything about BBC's show _Sherlock_, I only own my original character (OC) Ophelia Doreen Watson and bits of the plot.  
**Author's Note****: **Thank you SpectrumLight for the review! I hope to exceed your expectations ;) Without further ado, lets begin!

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1. Enter: Ophelia Watson, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes

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She couldn't help it, couldn't help that every pore of her was leaking happiness; she thought she would explode from the sheer amount of glee that coursed through her veins. She couldn't help that her mouth broke out into a vicious, wide smile that made her cheeks hurt. She couldn't even stop herself from throwing herself at her older brother, the sheer excitement from seeing him for the first time in four years clouded her vision or perhaps those were just the tears forming in her eyes. She knew better than to cry in public, especially in front of her older brother; he was always the worry-wort of the family, always taking on everyone else's problems before sorting himself out first. She cleared her mind, even if it was brief and obscure, and managed to force the tears down. She could feel his hands slowly pat her back and the warmth radiating from him; she missed him. She pulled back for a brief second, her eyes looking over his face. He looked older than he actually was. His hair parted and slicked back, she could even see some white hairs here and there, his eyes looked sad, dull even, and he walked with a limp.

"I missed you," she finally breathed out before dropping back from his hug, mentally scolding herself for making him hold her since he had a bad leg, "letters and phone calls just aren't enough you know." She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks and could hear her mother's words: _you're far too attached to your brother, let him breath_. From a small age Ophelia made John into a white knight, always knowing in the back of her mind that he would always be there for her, and she would always be there for him. She glorified him in her small, childish mind and now she could see that even white knights could be beaten. The overwhelming feeling of wanting to hug him again rose into her when his eyes cast down to his feet, but he quickly covered it with a smile that didn't really meet his eyes and a gentle push against her shoulder.

"I missed you too Effie," her eyes softened, he hadn't called her that in years, "I wanted to visit, but…" he tapped his leg with the side of his cane, smiling sadly, "traveling for too long makes my old bones ache." She smiled, of course she would, what else could she do?

"I don't care about the past, I'm here now. In London," she stepped forward and picked up her suitcase, "and you're going to show me around brother dear."

* * *

Arms linked, strolling down the sidewalk at a slow pace, John showed her every bit of London that he could in two hours.

"Do you want me to walk you to your flat?" John offered, she weighed the idea around in her head; she knew that he would worry if he didn't, but if he did it would tire him out quickly, "I'm not an invalid, I can walk just fine and your flat isn't too far away is it?" John always told her that she wore her heart on her sleeve and her thoughts on her face. She nodded, tightening the hold on his arm, "I think that'd be excellent." It was reassuring at the very least.

John stopped outside her flat and blinked at the site of it, "this, _this_ is where you'll be living?" She couldn't tell if he was surprised, astonished, or angry; maybe all three. She smiled lightly, the corners of her mouth barely lifting up before waving the single key in the air, "I do believe so." It was on the main road, accessible to cabbies and cars a like, and was only a block away from the grocery store that John had pointed out on the way over. It was nice, the outside was bricked and an off-white siding, even the front door had the off-white color. It looked narrow, compact just like the rest of the flats on the street, but Ophelia called it home. "Want to come in? I can make some tea and we can chat." John nodded his head and limped up the steps. She didn't mean to stare and she didn't mean to look sad, but John caught it. He always did.

"Stop it." He commented once and she knew what he was talking about. She turned and forced the key into the hole, turned it, and allowed John to come in. The flat itself wasn't large, wasn't even considered to be average; it was small. Once you came in through the door, you had a short hallway that led to the living room and a door that probably led to the alleyway in the back. The kitchen was in the same room, a small half-wall dividing it from the rest of it. Stairs were pressed against the left most wall, and another room was situated beside them.

"I see all your things arrived already," he commented while Ophelia went into the kitchen to put on a kettle, "even your ugly sofa." He tapped the floral designed sofa with the bottom of his cane before sitting down on it, the sofa immediately sunk in. She chuckled, "you know Mum bought that for me when I first moved out, don't be mean." He stood his cane up against the wall, "I know she did, but she always had a taste for all things floral and coral pink." The sofa looked silly sitting in a room that was full of fine things, but John brushed it up to sentimental value. He saw boxes among boxes lining the room, even her mattress which was pushed up against the wall. When she brought the tea out his eyes immediately went to her fingers, the dainty small digits that were covered in band-aids.

"Sorry if the tea isn't is hot as it should be, forgot to run the tea-pot under some hot water."

John shook his head, "nonsense. Warm tea is better than piping hot tea." Her hands shook as she poured the tea into the tea-cup and handed it to him, "thanks." He said quietly before sipping on it. He had missed his sister's tea, she always had a certain way of brewing it that made it taste better than anything else; he sighed with content.

"I missed you." He confided, smiling as he brought the tea to his lips again. She didn't look shocked, but rather amused by the statement, "and I you, John." It was funny how much comfort her presence brought to him, he almost forgot. Usually she was nervous and timid around people, but not around him; it was funny really. They talked about multiple things as the hours passed and afternoon soon became dusk. They had said their goodbyes and John went outside to hail a cab.

"Oh, and John?" He turned as a cab pulled up to the sidewalk, "be careful." He smiled loosely at his sister. She was worried. Her eyebrows always knitted together and she always tugged at her sweater when she was. He nodded, "always am Effie." He closed the cab's door behind him and watched as she disappeared from sight.

* * *

She stood outside for what seemed like an eternity as the cab disappeared from sight. She brought her cardigan closer as a breeze blew in before heading inside. She stared at the mess before her, pulled off her cardigan, and got to work. By nine o'clock, she had managed to drag her mattress up the steps (cursing the movers for not doing this themselves,) and got her bedroom in working order. She hung the twinkle lights above her headboard, unpacked almost all of her clothes, and hung up her pictures and posters. She flopped down on her bed, moved her arm over her eyes, and went to sleep.

It was around one in the morning when she woke up, the sound of something being pushed over in the alleyway behind her flat waking her up. At first she thought it was a stray cat, she had seen almost seven different ones parading behind her home when she was moving things around a few hours earlier. Then, she heard the back door unlock itself, and felt her heart drop into her stomach. She heard a crashing noise and winced; it was the sound of her coffee table being broken. She didn't know what to do but slowly lift herself off her bed and try to close her bedroom door. She screamed when a hand stopped her from doing so, and with all her strength tried to slam the door on their fingers. Superior strength won the battle as her door came crashing back, hitting the back wall, and she landed on her backside with a scared yelp.

It was a man, late thirties if she had to guess, that looked frightened, but just as menacing. He grabbed Ophelia's arm, hoisting her up just as another figure arrived at her bedroom door. He looked just as menacing and stoic, his lips forming a thin line, and his eyes going to her neck. That's when she felt something cold against her neck, she swallowed as the pit in her stomach got larger. He had a knife to her neck, she was going to die. She panicked, wriggling in the man's grasp before feeling a pinprick of pain against her neck and something flowing down. He cut her, actually cut her. "Stop moving." The man said behind her, twisting her wrist behind her back. She whimpered in pain.

"Troy Abbey, age thirty-eight weight at about two-hundred and eight; works at the coffee shop down the street, responsible for maiming and killing three people and framed his little brother for four murders. Look at you," the man at her bedroom door stepped into the light and the first thing she noticed was his striking blue-green eyes, "thirty-eight going nowhere in life, the only job you've held longer than three months was working as a barista, your wife left you for your younger brother - actually, had an affair for eight months with Frederick before becoming pregnant," the man's eyes went to her and her bleeding neck before licking his lips and smiling, how could he be smiling? "And you think holding a hostage will stop me from taking you in? The game is over Troy, don't make a bigger fool out of yourself. Don't add her to your list, she doesn't even look like the others." Ophelia would've fainted, she wish she would've. She froze as the knife dug into her skin more.

"Don't make a fool out of myself?" He growled, the knife cutting into her skin and his hand twisting her wrist more, "don't add her to the list?" He twisted her wrist more, a hard popping noise coming from it and she cried out, "who do you think you are?" The man at her doorway slid his hand into his pocket, took out his phone and looked at the screen, smirking to himself, "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you, Troy Phillip Abbey, are surrounded." The man, Sherlock, moved to the side as a police officer held a trained gun, aiming at Troy's head. He cursed and released her, throwing away the knife, and holding his hands up in the air. Once the officer moved to Troy's side, he cuffed him and led him out of the room. Sherlock still stood there, stoically as the medics rushed in to look over Ophelia, and as they did so he turned to leave.

"Brilliant," she managed to mumble out as the medics attempted to stop the trickling blood, "that was bloody brilliant." He paused in his steps, looked over his shoulder at her, and she would've sworn she saw a hint of what could be a smile before he left in a flurry of coat and scarf.

* * *

"I can't believe that happened," John fussed, his hands going to the stitching on her neck and the cast on her wrist, "I can't believe..." He stood up from the chair, his cane momentarily forgotten. He was angry, angry at the man who attacked his sister, angry at his sister, and most of all angry at himself. She grasped his jacket ends with her good hand, tugging it, "it's over John, I'm not dead. I'm still breathing, I've dealt with worse. I'm terribly sorry, really am." Her voice was timid and small, immediately calming him down enough so he'd sit. He leaned against the bed, his head in his hands, "I should've stayed with you."

"John," she stopped him and he finally noticed the tremor in her hand as she spoke, "please, just be here with me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She repeated herself as the tears welded up in her eyes and ultimately spilled over. John embraced his sister, kissing the top of her head, and tracing circles on her bad, "I'm here, I'm here." Her good hand clenched his jacket material, "I can't imagine how scared you were, how brave you had to be." Ophelia sobbed again.

"I wasn't brave, I wasn't. He saved me, he was absolutely brilliant. You should've seen him." The sob broke from her throat again and a cracked laugh. John rubbed his sister's back, not asking any questions and listened to her cry.


	3. Chapter 2

**Not so ****Shakespearean**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Sherlock_or anything that pertains to BBC's hit-show. I only own my original character (OC) Ophelia Doreen Watson and minor plot. Please enjoy and don't forget to review, alert, or favorite! Thank you.  
**Author's Note**: Drama, drama, drama! It'll settle down… sort of. Ophelia is the time of person to feel bad for a lot of things, even the littlest things; you'll see why dearies. Thank you for reading and hope you enjoy it!

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2. My Job as an Assistant

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Ophelia opened her compact, looking as her reflection stared back. Today was the big day, wasn't it? She nearly sprung a leak from the shameful amount of glee that coursed through her veins. She closed the compact, throwing it back in her purse which seemed more of a black hole than anything else, and walked across the street. She had finally gotten a job, after a ridiculous amount of interviews and call backs she finally landed a job. It wasn't much, she was working as an assistant for the morgue technician at St. Bart's hospital. It wasn't exciting, it was quite macabre, and it suited her just fine. Opening her compact again, she lined her lips with some nude lipstick, already nervous.

Her heels clicked on the pavement as she paused before the doors. She took a deep breath before pushing the doors open to the hospital.

* * *

"You must be Ophelia Watson." Ophelia wasn't expecting to find a chipper red-head working in the morgue, but there she was: Molly Hooper, her colleague and some what boss. Molly stuck out her hand and Ophelia gladly took it, smiling at the woman, "yes I am, and you must be Molly Hooper." The woman meekly nodded before letting Ophelia's hand go, "I'll give you the grand tour." Ophelia followed Molly around for about ten minutes, getting used to the layout of the morgue, and Molly's timid attitude.

"I usually go to lunch at about half past eleven, seems the slowest time of the day," Molly said, smiling a bit before directing Ophelia upstairs and into a room with counters littered with microscopes and Petri dishes, "you'll be helping me with the bodies, but for now I'm sticking you on clean up duty. I hope that, that's okay?" Ophelia covered the chuckle with a cough, nodding her head, "of course, I have to start on the bottom of the food chain don't I?" Molly looked a bit flustered but didn't comment on the jest, but instead turned around and started working on the toxicology reports for the recent bodies brought in.

* * *

_"How's your first day going? I hope your bum hand hasn't gotten in the way of your job."_ Ophelia shook her head, and replied with a simple no, _"I'm glad."_ He sounded relieved, and she could faintly hear that he was walking, possibly in the park. Ophelia didn't want to mention that her hand hurt, didn't want to mention that all she wanted to do was cry from embarrassment when Molly saw her neck.

_"Do you want to go out tonight? My treat."_ She mentally cursed herself, he probably heard the hurt in her voice, _"I don't think I'd take no as an answer."_ She smiled, "I think that'd be fine. Just no place with chopsticks." She joked quietly as she opened a bottle of water to sip on.

_"How long is your lunch break?"_ John asked, and she could faintly hear someone call John's name, _"shit. I gotta go, I'll call you later?"_

"It's a date." Before long Ophelia said her good-byes since her lunch break was coming to a close. Ophelia pocketed the phone into her lab coat before making her way back to the morgue. When she got back it was deathly quiet, well except a faint noise of what sounded like something being hit. She peered down the hallway that led to the actual morgue, and not just the lab. She did a double take as she saw Molly standing, staring through the window with a large smile on her face. Ophelia looked around, confused before walking down the hall the meet Molly.

"What are you-"

Oh.  
Oh.

That's where the hitting noises were coming from. A man was standing at the feet of the cadaver that had just rolled in with a riding crop in hand, smacking the dead man. If he wasn't dead, he surely was now. The man looked furious as he brought the leather piece down upon the dead flesh, making the most horrific noise Ophelia ever had the pleasure of hearing, "who's that?" Ophelia almost hissed at Molly. Her colleague didn't even look at Ophelia, just turned her head slightly.

"Sherlock Holmes, isn't he lovely?"

Ophelia looked at Molly as if she grew a second head_. Sherlock Holmes_. It was the man who had saved her almost a week ago, she watched breathlessly as he continued to whip to corpse. She didn't know whether to be glad or frightened. Ophelia took one more glance towards the man standing in the morgue, shook her head deciding it wasn't her business, (if Molly authorized him that means he's suppose to be here, right?) and went back to cleaning the lab. She hiked back up the stairs and went into the lab, cleaning up what Molly had left. She was carefully not to touch anything set on the counter opposite of her, "_Ongoing things is all, he always uses that spot_." She remembered Molly's exact words, and didn't fuss over the mess.

When she heard the door to the lab open, she assumed it was Molly and turned towards her, "Molly, did you want me to-" the words died on her lips as she turned and saw the man from earlier, except she could clearly see him now, "oh, my apologizes, thought you were Molly." She tried explaining. He didn't say anything, in fact Ophelia would say he down-right ignored her. He turned back to the counter, drying the beakers that she just washed. There was perfect silence for a few moments before she spoke: "thank you for saving me the other night Sherlock." Her voice was quiet and she stuttered, but she hoped that he heard her. She heard nothing. No reply or affirmation that he had indeed heard her. Again the door opened behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder,

Confusion spread over her face like wild-fire, what was John doing here? She ducked her head down as he looked around, she heard him stumble. He obviously saw her, but quickly covered it up: "a bit different from my day." She left his eyes glued to the back of her head. Another male voice came from beside her, "you've no idea!" It wasn't quiet for long before a deep baritone voice asked a question.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." She heard Mike step over to the counter and lean against it, "and what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text." Was the eloquent response. Ophelia rolled her eyes, looking over at John before mouthing at him: _what are you doing here?_ He shrugged, looking at Mike as he told Sherlock he didn't have his phone on him. John dug into his back pocket, "here, use mine." John barely walked a few steps before holding it out for Sherlock to take. "Oh, thank you." She heard the squeak of the stool and some foot steps. Ophelia propped another beaker up since it was dried.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Ophelia froze, her eyes glued to the counter in front of her. Even her hand stopped moving, oh God; what did he just say?

"Sorry...?" John replied and she could see his confused look in her mind, it probably matched her own. How did he know? Ophelia's mind scrambled around to find an answer before she turned to look at the two men.

"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" She saw Sherlock look up at her brother, his eyes even slipped over towards her, and then back down at the phone.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" She was amazed, the exact observation just like nights earlier.

The door opened once again behind Ophelia, effectively making her jump a bit. Molly came through the doors smiling as she carried a mug in her hand, steam rolling off of it. Just by the smell, Ophelia knew what it was: coffee.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He handed the phone back to John, who still looked confused about what just happened, and grabbed the mug. Molly smiled, even looked a little flustered, "what happened to the lipstick?" Ophelia frowned, _lipstick? Molly wasn't wearing lipstick when I saw her last_. It occurred to her that Molly had put it on especially for Sherlock.

Molly smiled, a bit awkwardly, "it wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He turned away from her, sipping on the coffee, and she could see Molly's face fall, a tint of embarrassment shading her cheeks. Ophelia felt deflated even if the words weren't directed at her and looked sympathetically over at Molly; she looked like she was going to cry.

"...okay," She turned around, looked up and saw Ophelia, "oh. Ophelia, when you get a chance can you run by the ER for me and pick up some records?"

"Of course Molly." Ophelia gave Molly her best and brightest smile, which in turn made her smile as well. Molly left promptly, holding her hand up to her face. Mike looked over at Ophelia, "did you have a sister named Ophelia?" Abashed, Ophelia looked at John and smiled weakly. Both of them didn't answer.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, what?" John tried again, his eyes narrowing in confusion once more. _He seems to be saying that a lot__. _

Sherlock was typing on his laptop, didn't even bother to look up when he replied, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he turned towards John, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." _Flatmates? _Ophelia thought, looking back and forth between the two men and then at Mike. John looked as Mike as well, confusion once again clear on his face.

"Oh, you ... you told him about me?"

Mike shook his head, "not a word." John turned his attention back to Sherlock, "then who said anything about flatmates?"

Sherlock looked indifferent to the question as he picked up his coat, "_I_ did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How _did _you know about Afghanistan?"

Sherlock ignored him, wrapped a blue scarf around his neck, and picked up his phone to check it, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." The mysterious man towards John, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." The sudden flash of him hitting the cold corpse over and over again came to mind; she shivered. Sherlock dropped his phone into his pocket and went to open the door. John turned towards him.

"Is that it?"

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at John, "is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat?" The disbelief was clear, so was the confusion, and a number of other emotions.

"Problem?"

The disbelief increased as he looked at Mike for help, and then at Ophelia. His gaze looked like he wanted help, but what would she say? What would she do?_  
_

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." John began. She glanced back at Sherlock, watching as he took in a deep breath.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Your younger sister is worried about you, but you can't ask her for help either - what kind of older sibling would you be then? You're protecting her from yourself - no." He stopped momentarily, looking like he was thinking, "you're protecting her from the world around her; always the white knight it seems. Oh, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." Sherlock looked down at John's limp and John noticed, shuffling awkwardly. Ophelia gaped at him.

How.

How did he know all that. He was brilliant.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" The smugness in his voice was suffocating. He turned on his heel and began walking out the door, but stopped, looked back, and spoke once again: "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one-B Baker Street." He winked and promptly left in a swirl of coat and scarf. John looked at Ophelia then at Mike.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

* * *

"You're not actually considering..." Ophelia started, looking dumbfounded by even the idea that John was thinking about moving in with Sherlock, "I mean - he's a good man in all, but," she stuttered over her words, her good hand playing with her hair as she looked down the images of him hitting the corpse resurfaced, "he seems … off." John chuckled into his wine glass.

"Everybody is a tad off Effie, no one is perfect." Ophelia played with the idea of retorting with _I think you are_, but her mother's words rushed over her and she stopped, nodding in fake agreement. If he had noticed it was fake he didn't say anything, which she was glad for. She sipped her white wine incredulously, she really hated wine, but John ordered this in celebration of her new job, "wait, you said he was a good man. Not _seems_, but _is_. You met Sherlock before?"

"He was the one who saved me when my attacker broke in." She heard him choke on his wine, and the coughing that followed it. She sipped quietly without looking up. "What?" His voice was hoarse when he finally responded, he dabbed his napkin against his mouth, "are you sure?"

"He said his name, Sherlock Holmes."

"I - he.." He was quiet before taking out his wallet, putting down a pile of pounds, "and you're saying you're worried about me moving in with him? He saved you." He looked angry before he collected his cane and jacket, leaving with a rushed good-bye. Ophelia wanted to cry and scream, like a child, but held it in as she thanked her waiter and walked home.

_Good going Watson. _And when she got home, she felt the over-flow of tears, and she threw her bad hand against the wall immediately feeling the repercussions for the spur of the moment action. Now she cried for making her brother angry and cried for the pain swelling in her casted hand.


	4. Chapter 3

**Not so ****Shakespearean**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Sherlock _or anything that pertains to BBC's hit-show. I only own my original character (OC) Ophelia Doreen Watson and minor plot. Please enjoy and don't forget to review, alert, or favorite! Thank you.  
**Author's Note**: SpectrumLight you are such a delight! I'm so glad you were one of my first (and only so far, haha) reviewer; you are awesome! Also thank you to: XLauraEmrysX, ermahgerdwhatever, mf6661, and of course SpectrumLight for the follows! And a big thank you for ChibiChesire and shinigamigymnast13 for the favourite! You guys are amazing :)

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3. Begin! A Study in Pink

* * *

Five o'clock rolled around entirely too soon for Ophelia, but her alarm clock insisted as it rang and rang until she pushed down the snooze button. She barely got a wink of sleep last night, instead she chose to drink a little too much - some cheap beer she picked up at the market along with painkillers - and listen to Tchaikovsky until nothing filled her mind except for the pulsating notes of his overture. Her head panged with the familiar feeling of a hangover as she made her way down to her kitchen to set the kettle to boil. She berated herself silently for drinking on the first day of her job, but it wasn't exactly planned she was just overly upset at herself; she always did something stupid (according to her mother,) when she was upset at something, and the poison this time around was alcohol. The Earl Grey bitterly slid down her throat before she made her way to the shower; _God she smelt like a brewery_.

* * *

When she toweled off, Ophelia finished off the rest of her tea before tottering back to the kitchen to make some toast which she buttered generously and turned on the telly. She sunk into the couch, curling her knees into her chest, and relished how warm her bathrobe was. She bit into her toast as the morning news flooded the screen, the main topic being the 'serial' suicides that had happened over the last couple months; it was nothing new to Ophelia, even back home she turned on the telly and heard about the horrific events that were unrolling in London. That's why her Mother was so against her moving to London in the first place, that and she insisted that Ophelia needed to give her brother room to breath.  
By the time the morning news ended it was a quarter past six, and Ophelia went to her bedroom to finish getting ready for another long day of work.

It was a schedule of normalcy for Ophelia, always the same things first: brushing her teeth, drying her hair and styling it; make-up was next, followed by getting dressed, and lastly the finding of her purse and the procuring of her keys. She slipped on her Mary-Jane heels and was ready to make a dash for a cab, but as soon as the door swung open she almost ran into her brother.  
His fist was raised, as if he was ready to knock on the door as soon as she opened it, but quickly took it back and coughed into it. Even with all the make-up in the world, she knew her eyes were red and puffy, even her cheeks would be flushed; she hurriedly turned and locked the door. "What are you doing here John?" Her voice was quiet as she took her key out and twisted the doorknob to see if it was fully locked; it was.

"I wanted to apologize for last night," he started, but she knew more was coming, "but you can't keep acting like you're older and wiser than me Effie, I'm a grown man." His voice was tough, and he sounded very much like how he did when he told her, Harriet, and her parents that he was enrolling into the military; he wanted to be reassured. Ophelia took in a deep breath before twirling on her heel to face him with the bravest of smiles, "I know John, but I am your sister; am I not allowed to be worried?" She tried to put a teasing spin on her words, but when she saw her brother's face fall she knew it wasn't there. He scuffed the bottom of his shoe against the cement before sighing, looking up at the already darkening clouds, and then back to her.

"How about this," he offered, "you come with me to the flat and see where I'll be living. Will that set your mind at ease?" Ophelia shivered against her better judgement as the images of Sherlock wiping a cold corpse came back into her mind's eye; however, she stiffened her upper lip and nodded her head, "yes it would mean the world to me John." She could see John's face light up and her back slackened at the dispersing tension.

"Come, I'll ride in the cab with you."

* * *

"You look happier today," Molly remarked as Ophelia shimmied off her jacket to hang up in the locker, "a little on the sick side though, are you alright?" Ophelia stiffened before nodding, trying to give a nice smile. "Well, I got up this morning and remembered I have a job with a wonderful colleague; it immediately set me in a happier mood." She saw Molly's face flush before she smiled, and Ophelia could feel the smile rising to her lips as well. After she slipped on her lab coat, Molly nodded at her: "Ready to go?"

"Of course!" And off down the hallway they went, mostly casual niceties passed back and forth; however, when Ophelia and Molly showed up outside the morgue there was a lone figure standing in the hallway. He wasn't smartly dressed, so obviously he wasn't a doctor or a nurse; Ophelia observed him masticating loudly on a piece of gum as they approached.

"Hello," Molly started first, fishing the key out of her pocket, "can I help you?" He lazily smiled as his eyes traveled up Molly's body and slowly made his way over to Ophelia. She noted that momentarily his eyes did widen, but a quick smile replaced it as he pushed himself off the wall, "I'm Jim, I work upstairs as an IT worker, but I was sent down here for some files?" Molly nodded her head, her face a fire-red as she quickly unlocked the doors and pushed them open.

"Do you know what the files were named? It'd be easier to find them." Molly asked, he shook his head as the lazy smile stretched across his lips. Ophelia was silent, looking between the two embarrassingly, "I can go see if they're in the outbox, if you know the name." She said uneasily. Jim's gaze was rendered on her, and she could feel the nervousness build up inside of her.

"You two are darling!" He yelled loudly, laughing just afterwards and Ophelia flinched back in the sudden change of character, "absolutely adorable." He clapped his hands together before adding: "the title was DW23R7J I believe." Ophelia nodded her head and walked over to the inbox, listening to Jim shamelessly flirt with Molly. She found the documents and quickly handed them over to Jim, unconsciously biting on her lower lip and dragging her tongue over it afterwards.

"Here you go sir." She stumbled over her words, but Jim looked at her - with what she could describe - as a kind gaze and gently took the manila folder from her hands, his finger brushing slightly against hers; heat rose into her cheeks and the already wide smile became cheek splitting on his lips. "Call me Jim, please and thank you! Now I won't get hassled by my boss." He joked. His accent was obviously English, but it sounded almost new? _Could you describe an accent like that?_ she wondered before noting that he was leaving. Molly turned to go see if any bodies were brought in and Ophelia went to follow before she felt a sudden tug on her thick, blonde hair.

"You are absolutely _delicious_." She stiffened, the accent was now almost a thick Irish one and she didn't dare start to walk again until she heard the door close behind her. Her legs felt like jelly as she walked back to Molly, who was scanning over two or three files laid out on a gurney. "You alright?" Molly inquired, looking concerned at the smaller girl, "you're shaking, you cold? You can fetch your jacket if you want, no need for you to be uncomfortable in here." Ophelia chewed on her bottom lip, shaking her head before smiling: "I'm fine Molly, now how did Jackson Peters die?"

* * *

John waited patiently outside the hospital, his weight shifting from one foot to the other as he leaned against his cane. It was a dreary day outside, the graying clouds looked like they wanted to storm but couldn't decide. Finally, he spotted Ophelia coming out from the elevator her red blouse tucked into her high-waisted pleated skirt and shiny, new heels. John smiled and was about to wave at his sister when he noticed a man stopped her; she didn't look entirely too comfortable with his presence, but noticed she looked relieved after a couple of words left his mouth. She nodded before saying her good-byes and walking outside, and to where her brother stood watching.

"Hello John." Ophelia greeted, an awkward smile pressed against her lips as tiny white puffs of air left her mouth; she slide on her jacket, buttoning it up, as John replied. "Who was that?"

"What no hello?" She jokingly asked, "he's interested in Molly." John nodded his head, his eyes followed after the man as he left through the front doors and quickly down the steps to flag a cab, "you sure?" He inquired more, watching as he got in a cab and looked back in time to see a hot pink rise to her cheeks, "something happen?" He pressed, raising a brow at her. She shook her head, smiling brightly, "nothing John, now 221b Baker Street, correct?"

* * *

The cab ride over was quiet at the very least, it gave time for Ophelia to calm her fluttering heart, and give John some passing glances. He looked nervous, tapping his cane against his bum leg, and kept staring out the window; she caught him glancing at her as well and give her a sweet smile. "I really hope that this helps you feel better." He said once again, patting her knee with his free hand. She smiled and nodded her head, "it will, I promise." The cabbie turned around, an older man with kind eyes, "we're here." The cab briefly stopped just a few yards away from what looked to be a small café. John nodded his head and handed the payment to the cabbie, sliding out behind his sister.

He took a deep breath of the damp air, letting it filter into his lungs and out before glancing at his sister; she shifted her weight from foot to foot, her eyes directly looking down as she scuffed her heel against the pavement. Licking his lips, he grasped the bend in her arm before pulling her close to him, "don't do that," she looked up at him, her large grey-blue eyes wide, "that sad face. You know I'll fall for it every time." Her hand throbbed at the awkward angle her arm was pulled into, her head nodding as they walked down the sidewalk towards the lacquered door with two-two-one-b hanging above the knocker. John tensed beside her, knocking on the door and standing back as Ophelia leaned against the wall, chewing on her lower lip.

"Hello." Ophelia watched as Sherlock came from the cab, handing the driver money as John turned around, smiling, "Ah, Mr. Holmes." John limped over to Sherlock, hand raised, "Sherlock, please." The dark-haired man corrected, taking John's hand and shaking it. John stepped aside, "this is my-"

"Niece? No, no too old... Sister, yes definitely - you share the same eye color, physique, and facial features. Younger, I'd say about seven years give or take," Sherlock held his hand out to Ophelia, who had pushed herself off of the wall moments before, "Sherlock Holmes." Ophelia took his large hand into her smaller one, giving is a firm squeeze before shaking it. "I know who you are Mr. Holmes, I'm Ophelia Watson; a pleasure to meet you." His eyes sparked for a moment as he took back his hand, "ah, yes. The girl from the Abbey case, and you're working with Ms. Hooper now aren't you?" She shook her head before stepping back to John's side.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." John said after the quiet got too much for him; he leaned against his cane but shifted once again to stand straight. Sherlock folded his arms behind his back, "Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked curiously.

"Oh no. I ensured it." Sherlock smiled, Ophelia found herself shivering ever so slightly at the mention of the husband's execution. The front door of the building opened, revealing an older woman with short, coppery hair and a smiling face; she opened her arms wide, "Sherlock, hello!" Ophelia stifled a small laugh behind her lips as she watched the tall man embrace the woman for just a moment before stepping back to present her and John to the woman; _she must be the landlady._

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson and his sister, Ophelia Watson." Mrs. Hudson's lips curved wider, if it was possible, "hello." She inclined her head slightly, her eyes shifting over John and then to Ophelia briefly.

"How do?" John smiled back as Ophelia nodded her head, giving the older woman a sweet smile, "oh, come in." Mrs. Hudson opened the door wider and gesturing to both John and Ophelia to come in. "Thank you." John replied almost unsure, "shall we?" Sherlock asked, Ophelia looked up at the man before hearing a calm _yeah_ in reply. Not to her surprise, Sherlock was the first one in and John followed behind just as Ophelia entered she heard Mrs. Hudson close the front door behind her.

"Oh dear, are you looking for a place as well? I have a basement flat, but it's ... a fixer-upper." Mrs. Hudson's gentle voice soothed Ophelia's thudding, nervous heart; she shook her head, laughing quietly, "oh no Mrs. Hudson, I already have a flat. It's actually not too far away, a few blocks around the corner - thank you for the offer though." Her cheeks started to hurt from the eager smile that was fixated on her lips; Mrs. Hudson shooed her up the stairs as she went into, what Ophelia assumed was, her own flat. Her heels clicked on the wooden steps as she stepped up the narrow passage way, and turned into the first room.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in." "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..." An embarrassed _oh_ left John's mouth not soon after as the Watson siblings watched Sherlock freeze, "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." The man crossed the room, making a half-hearted attempt to tidy up; throwing folders into a box before crossing over to the fireplace with a few envelopes in hand, settling them on the mantle piece before stabbing a knife through the envelopes. Ophelia shrunk back from her place, flinching at the _thud_ the knife made.

John pointed to the mantle, more generally at the skull sitting a top it, "That's a skull." Ophelia coughed as a poor attempt to hide the fact that it was originally a chuckle, "friend of mine," Sherlock started, glancing between the two siblings who were a room apart, "when I say _friend_..." Mrs. Hudson appeared behind her, "excuse me dear." Flinching at the contact Mrs. Hudson's hand madewith her shoulder (her stitches aching from the light pat,) she stepped aside and let Mrs. Hudson pass, who was already picking up a saucer and cup. Sherlock untied his scarf, shrugged off his coat, and was making his way over to hang it up.

Ophelia looked around the room, her eyes wavering at the skull before settling on the violin case sitting in the corner; it brought a faint smile to her lips, "you play?" it was a whisper, and she half-hoped the keen-eared man hadn't heard her; however, instead he _did_ turn towards her and followed her gaze. "Of course, you were in the lab when I asked your brother if he minded it." Was his defiant answer, leaving no room for discussion. In her defense she had forgotten that he had even asked her brother.

"Effie played the cello for eleven years; she was an absolute star at it." John's voice crept up. Ophelia looked over at John, who was sitting comfortably on a chair. Sherlock made an affirming noise in the back of his throat, his eyes still cast down on her, "what was your favorite piece to play?" Ophelia smiled, sadly, "Fauré's Élégie."

"Ah." He turned on his heel, continuing with tidying up just a bit; throwing papers and folders into boxes and such. The quiet became too much for John once again, "I looked you up on the internet last night." Sherlock stopped, turning on his heel to face John, "find anything interesting?"

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." John leaned forward, tucked his left foot behind his right; Ophelia glanced around and sat down on the couch, watching the two men, "what did you think?" Sherlock's face was lit by a proud smile, but it is quickly diminished by the face John pulls.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, your protectiveness in your stance, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." Ophelia blanched at Sherlock _brother? Does he mean Harriet?_

"How?" Sherlock smiled and turned just as Mrs. Hudson came from the kitchen with the newspaper in hand, "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Ophelia's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, watching as Sherlock walked over to the window and looked down.

"Four," Ophelia didn't see what he was looking at, but felt forbearance creep over her, "there's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson questioned; John and Ophelia looked at each other before looking at Sherlock, who had turned as a man walked through the door. _Odd_, Ophelia thought, _Mrs. Hudson locked the door behind her, I'm sure of it_. He looked to be somewhat out of breath as he glanced over at Sherlock. "Where?" Sherlock asked, Ophelia wasn't entirely sure what was going on still, "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Was the reply he got; the man's voice was strict, but still soft. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." The obviously older man, Ophelia could tell by the graying hair, "You know how they never leave notes?" _Yeah_ Sherlock replied, "this one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" "It's Anderson." Sherlock grimaced, clicking his tongue he replied: "Anderson won't work for me." "Well he won't be your assistant." "I _need_ an assistant." The man sighed, "will you come?" "Not in a police car," Sherlock looked out the window, "I'll be right behind." "Thank you." The man looked from Mrs. Hudson, to John, and lastly to Ophelia; he gave a slight nod before heading back down the stairs. Just as the front door shuts, Sherlock leaped into the air, clenching his fists in some sort of triumphant act. Ophelia couldn't help the smile as the man twirled around the room happily.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" His feet led him to his abandoned scarf and coat he headed towards the kitchen, only looking back to speak a few words: "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." Ophelia looked to Mrs. Hudson, who didn't look dejected, but quite the opposite: she looked rather happy, "I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper." Her tone was stern, but her face gave away the happiness she felt. "Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Ophelia watched Sherlock snatch up a leather pouch from the kitchen table, which was nearly out of sight, and opened the door - he disappeared from her view. John and Ophelia looked at each other; she could've sworn that her brother looked upset, quite actually.

Mrs. Hudson looked back at the two siblings, smiling earnestly, " Look at him, dashing about! _My_ husband was just the same." Ophelia noticed John grimace, but all she could do was smile at the older woman and nod her head. Mrs. Hudson reminded her a lot of her estranged Aunt from her Father's side of the family; Aunt Clarice, who disappeared several years before Ophelia turning fifteen. Clarice was always a nice woman, if not a bit odd at times, and always had a smile on her face.

"But, you're the sitting down type. I can tell." Ophelia bit her lip to contain the smile threatening the spread just for the fact that John looked relatively uncomfortable about it; he was insecure. Insecure about his leg, the way he walked; all of it. A light pink-tinted his cheeks as Mrs. Hudson clasped a hand down on his shoulder, patting it. "I'll make you a cuppa, rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" Ophelia neared jumped out of her skin; it was nothing new - his yelling - yet Ophelia always felt a tremor go through her when he yelled. John was the type that never shows his emotions, he always keeps it bottled up until it explodes, "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." Ophelia winced as John bashed the side of his leg with his cane. "I understand, dear; I've got a hip." She pat her hip softly, smiling at Ophelia before turning back to the door.  
_"_Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you."  
"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson turned towards Ophelia, "what about you dear?" Ophelia nodded her head, "a cuppa would be lovely Mrs. Hudson." She barely caught the _such manners_ that Mrs. Hudson mumbled under her breath, but smiled at the compliment.  
"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em." Ophelia watched John snatch up the newspaper and unfold it, rather grumpily. Mrs. Hudson was already out the door, but she could hear her bellow: "Not your housekeeper!" Ophelia opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by another voice.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." Ophelia cranked her head just in time to see Sherlock slip his hand into his leather glove, his body almost leaning against the frame, but refusing to touch it. She watched John jump up, "yes." Sherlock made his way back into the room, stopping just short of John. "Any good?" "_Very_ good." Was her brother's response. "Seen a lot of injures, then; violent deaths." John paled a tad, but straightened his back, "Mmm, yes." The same affirmative noise was made from Sherlock, "bit of trouble too, I bet?" "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." His voice was quiet, and there was a sort of reprieve of speech.

"Wanna see more?"

"Oh God yes!" John answered, fervently. Ophelia gaped at them, her lips parted. Sherlock's eyes shot over to her, and almost (what she thought was,) teasingly tapped his chin, silently telling her to close her mouth; she did, embarrassed that she got caught. John turned towards her, missing the silent conversation, "I'm going to go, you can walk yourself home, yeah?" She nodded, standing up to straighten herself out; "of course!" John smiled and limped over to her to give her a lazy hug before following Sherlock down the steps: "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson! I'll skip the tea, off out!"

"Both of you?" She heard Mrs. Hudson ask, obviously confused.

" Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" She could hear the amount of joy spilling from his very being. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." Ophelia walked down the steps, her hands clasped around her purse strap in front of her. She caught Mrs. Hudson's smile as Sherlock turned around, exclaiming: "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" And off he went through the front door, her brother following close behind.

As the door closed, Mrs. Hudson turned towards her: "well, will you still be joining me for tea then?"

* * *

"You are just a delight!" Mrs. Hudson chuckled, happiness spreading over her face, "you remind me of my niece, she's a quiet one too; however, she doesn't have manners!" She chuckled again, sipping her tea, "though she is going through that difficult time in her life... teens, I remember those days too." Ophelia rather enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's company, though she did like to talk. Ophelia mostly sat there nodding and gasping at the proper times, happy to make Mrs. Hudson happy. She had finished her third cup of tea a while ago, but stayed to see if her brother would make it home; it had only been twenty minutes.

"Oh dear, but I've kept you long enough; it's nearly nine o'clock, should you be on your way home?" Ophelia looked at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, knowing full well she had work the next morning.

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, may I ask a favor?"

"Of course dear, what is it you need?" Another kind smile, Ophelia felt positively enamored with that smile, "will you help me make something for the boys? Uh, to eat, you know.. when they get back, I mean I'm sure they'll be hungry." Mrs. Hudson laughed, a full-blown out laugh that filled the entire flat.

"Sherlock doesn't eat while on cases, usually dear; you're more worried about your brother aren't you?" Ophelia couldn't help but feel a little flustered at the accusation, "ah, don't worry dear. Sisters have to worry about their brothers time-to-time, especially ones so lively." Mrs. Hudson nodded her head in a way that spoke _I know how you feel_, and immediately the hot cheeks dissipated, "what were you thinking?"

"Well, my Mum always made cold blueberry-basil soup; John adores it, I was hoping..." Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together, "that sounds delicious! I do have blueberries and basil, what else do you need?"

* * *

Not ten minutes later she heard the front door open and close, but it was only one set of feet going up the stairs. Ophelia currently had her sauce simmering in a pan, her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and a white apron was tied around her waist; Mrs. Hudson insisted on it since she was wearing such "nice clothing".

"I'll go see who it is dear, you just keep doing what you're doing."

Ophelia took off her pan, seeing as the blueberries had melted into the rest of the sauce, and placed the kettle of water on it instead. She moved to Mrs. Hudson's blender dumping the mixture, yogurt, and the basil into it; she flicked on the switch, bracing herself for the noise. It only lasted a few moments before she turned it off and poured the cold soup into two separate bowls. The kettle whistled loudly and Ophelia moved herself over to take it off; two mugs were situated on the table which Mrs. Hudson had already put the tea infuser into. She poured the water into the mugs, careful to avoid any spillage as Mrs. Hudson came back it.

"It's just Sherlock dear, your brother will be home soon I suspect."

"What do you mean my brother isn't here?" The word _home_ struck Ophelia much more than she thought it would; this was his home now, he'd be living here now, and he has a different family _now_.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, "Sherlock messaged him a few times now, he assures me that he is on his way." Ophelia nodded, still not clear on why her brother wasn't back. She didn't want to think the worse, so she shook her head and went back to the tea. "You have to let it stand for three minutes dear, let it set and then you can add the milk." Ophelia nodded, following Mrs. Hudson's directions. She had never been one to make a good cup of tea, coffee was more her forte. The minutes passed slowly, "alright now you can add the milk, dear. You're going to want the right color - a dark orange-brown will be perfect." Mrs. Hudson watched over Ophelia's shoulder as she poured the milk, "ah! Perfect." Mrs. Hudson clapped a hand on Ophelia's shoulder, it was comforting.

"I'll go take this up, but I'll be back down to clean up; I promise, and don't you start without me." Ophelia teased, knowing that Mrs. Hudson (even though she insisted she wasn't a housekeeper) loved to help out. Ophelia put the bowls on a tray along with the mugs and silverware before heading up the steps.

* * *

Ophelia used her hip to open the closed-door, luckily it was unlocked. Once she stepped into the threshold of Sherlock and John's flat, she glanced around for the tall, dark-haired man; he wasn't in sight. She opened the door wider, the squeaking almost eerie before she walked to the kitchen. Her eyes widened in shock. What was supposed to be the kitchen table was covered in trinkets, tubes, beakers, bunsen burners, and she was sure she saw a torch laying haphazardly across it all; it was basically a science lab. In the kitchen. On the table. She sighed and turned around, freezing in her spot to see Sherlock - eyes closed and fingers to his lips - silently laying on the sofa; if she didn't know any better, she would've thought he was sleeping. She walked carefully to the coffee table to set down the tray before glancing around, biting her lower lip.

Her eyes landed on the table sitting behind her, littered with papers. She side-stepped to the table, rummaging through them until she found a blank sheet of paper and a pen. She turned and knelt, her heels making a squeaking sound against the hardwood floor before clicking the pen.

_John-  
__thought you and Sherlock would be hungry (even if he doesn't eat whilst on cases,) here's some chilled-soup and tea. Call me in the morning.  
__with all my love,_

_Effie._

She folded the letter and placed it on the tray and had begun to get up when she was startled: "do you make it a habit to sift through other people's belongings?" A startled gasp left her mouth before she could stop it, and she silently cursed herself. "I'm sorry." Was the impulsive response that made her lips part.

"You should be," she didn't want to look up at him, instead she choose to put the pen quickly back in its place and turned to retreat downstairs, "oh stop that. He's not here." She stopped short of the door, she could feel her hands shaking, but she clenched her fists in a frail attempt to make it stop.

"What?"

He sat up, she could hear the sofa shift from the sudden movement, "you're young, if I had to say I'd say twenty-eight, twenty-nine at the most; however, you get - what you believe is an insult - that you look younger, so you compensate by dressing maturely. Tight-red shirt, tucked into a pleated skirt - the heels are brand new, barely used; you just got them within the week. You dress like this to forget something though, you can tell by the way you look exceedingly uncomfortable when you walk; you're not used to heels, the band-aids on the back of your heels are a tale-tell sign of course, but you trip as you walk. What do you want to forget? Why would you want to be taken so seriously?" He paused, looking at her small, shaking form, "you were abused. By your boyfriend? No, you wear a ring on your ring-finger - a cheap one at that. A plain gold band, he didn't like to spend money on you. So, it was a husband then. He must've liked that you looked younger, probably one of the reasons he asked you to date him; he likes to be the dominant one." Sherlock looked to be in thought for a mere moment, "you apologize even when it's not your fault, you flinched earlier at your brother's outburst;flushed cheeks and what would be a high-heart rate say I'm right. You looked afraid. So... you have trust issues because of it. That's why you came over today to see if I was a quote on quote _okay person_ for your brother to be living with even though you had earlier thanked me for saving your life," he paused once again, exhaling and inhaling before continuing, "ah - that's why you haven't seen your brother in so many years. Your husband cut away at your normal li-"

"You can't tell my brother!" Ophelia exclaimed even though she didn't really mean to, "you can't! He doesn't know, if you tell him he'll fli-"

"Tell him what?" Came a voice from behind her, and she froze; she knew that voice, the kind but bone-chilling upset voice, "what's going on?" She tensed up, looking at Sherlock with pleading eyes before turning to see her brother, who was clutching her side.

She panicked, he'd know if she was lying. He always knew.

"That she was going to leave without saying good-bye. She got quite upset when I asked her where she was going."

She could've cried tears of pure joy when the words left Sherlock's mouth, she could've hugged the angst-y bastard. Ophelia looked at her brother and frowned, "I just thought I'd leave, but - " her voice shook.

"I told her to write you a letter. I'd make you feel at ease since you were wondering if she had gotten home alright the entire time we were _at the crime scene_." John shook his head and laughed. Sherlock was an impeccable liar, she felt both guilt and relief wash over her as John drew her into a hug. "You're too cute Effie, I'm glad you at least wrote a letter." He chuckled again, "that was a childish thing to get worked up over." He pet her messy hair before placing a kiss on her forehead, she frowned.

"Now, don't you need to get home. You work tomorrow don't you?" Ophelia nodded her head and she went to walk out the door, but was stopped by John yet again who pulled her into another hug. As she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly she mouthed to Sherlock _thank you_. He stalked over to the sofa and flopped down on the sofa once again.

Even though he ignored her, Ophelia liked to think it was his way of saying "you're welcome".

**Quick!Author's Note: Holy moly, a 6,000+ word chapter I really hope you guys enjoy! Sorry for all the conversation, but since it's the first chapter pulling in the plot there was bound to be _a lot_ of discussion. As you can tell, this fic will be mostly OC-centric, _Hide and_ Seek is different in that it switches between POVs; if that is more your cup of tea please feel free to check it out. The next chapter will be a short one, most likely and have less Sherlock in it; however, it will have some more of Jim (yay?)**

**By the by, it doesn't mention when *spoilers* Moriarty started working incognito as Jim the IT at the hospital, so I thought what better way than to integrate our favorite villain than now? I hope that's okay! Lots of love! Please review/alert/favorite, and I hope you enjoyed!**


	5. Chapter 4 (bonus)

**Not so ****Shakespearean**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Sherlock _or anything that pertains to BBC's hit-show. I only own my original character (OC) Ophelia Doreen Watson and minor plot. Please enjoy and don't forget to review, alert, or favorite! Thank you.  
**Author's Note**:Thank you to: ChibiCheshire, Thetroublewithexes, and shinigamigymnast13 for the favorites! And LadyInAzure, PrincessMacaroni, SpectrumLight, XLauraEmrysX, cloudsomniakitty, ermahgerdwhatever, and mf6661 for the alerts! Now onto the story~

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4. Intermission: Cab ride

*bonus chapter*

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"Okay, you've got questions." Sherlock said after a short, but pregnant silence.  
John didn't know whether to feel amused or curious, perhaps both would be best: "yeah, where are we going?" There was a sort of smile on his face when he looked over at his new flatmate.  
"Crime scene. Next?" was the short answer he got. John huffed slightly, "who are you? What do you do?"  
"What do you think?" Sherlock looked curious to what John would said, and John was hesitant to take a guess; however, slowly and cautiously he replied, "I'd say private detective..." John stopped short, in taking some breath, "but?" Sherlock interrupted. "But the police don't go to private detectives." John finished, his eyes scanning over the man's face to see an affirming expression; none came.

"I'm a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."  
John felt a tremor of shock go through him, but rebounded quickly, "what does that mean?"  
Sherlock let out, what John believed was, a sigh, "it means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."  
John chuckled ever so slightly, "the police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock threw John a look, which John couldn't entirely place; if he didn't know any better he'd say that he was upset.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised."

"Yes, how _did_ you know?" John curiously asked, hoping that his question might finally be answered.  
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room... said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." A click of a 'k' sounds from the last word as Sherlock then wordlessly looks out the window, satisfied with himself.  
"You said I had a therapist." John stated.  
"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of _course_ you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother." Sherlock answered, he looked back to John who looked surprised and squeaked a small _hmm_from the back of his throat; Sherlock holds his hand out, "your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." John handed him his phone and watches as Sherlock turns it over before speaking again, "scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

John didn't skip a beat: "the engraving."

_Harry Watson_  
_From Clara_  
_xxx_

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left _him_, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to _you_: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?" John asked, astonishment heavy on his words.  
Sherlock smiled, "shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He handed the phone back to John, quite satisfied with himself.

"What about having a younger sister? You couldn't have known by looking at my hair or phone." John pushed, watching as Sherlock's smile twitched larger. Sherlock's eyes shifted over to John's wrist, "you wear an old watch; almost ten years old by the worn leather. You clean it regularly, so it's obviously something that means a great deal to you - given to you by someone you love. No ring, not a wife. Can't be a girlfriend or else you'd most likely be living with her and not searching for a flatshare. Could be niece or nephew, but your brother doesn't have any children or else you'd have their photos in your wallet; sibling then. It wouldn't have been your brother since you hardly talk to him, so that leaves another sibling."

"Okay, so how did you get the younger sister part?"

"I was getting there, John," Sherlock said reluctantly before continuing: "the brand is expensive, meaning the person that gave it to you cares about you. I could say it was your mother, but watches are an uncommon gift from mother to son; however, whoever gave it to you doesn't know much about watches. The brand is expensive, pretty, but that doesn't mean it's good; you've had it repaired more times than you'd be likely to count. Most men know about watches, but women on the other hand tend to not know much - or anything - about them. So a woman, a sibling: sister. I say younger because there is a pinkish tint to the watch band, but it's not the color of the leather: something was rubbed off against it. Most likely plastic or ribbon, I'm going to say ribbon because of the material barbs that are still stuck to it. An older would not put a pink ribbon around the band, only a younger one would do that."

"That's how you got a younger sister?" John looked at the man sitting next to him with non-belief.

"You want me to continue? Well, while we were at the hospital you had a run in with her, correct? The woman who had the pale blonde hair and a cast around her hand? You look surprised to see her there, and she was trying to hide her face; she didn't want you to see her? Or maybe she didn't want you to look surprised when you entered the room, either way she was worried about you. You both were surprised to see each other - she must've just gotten the job and moved into town. Haven't seen each other in years, though you've talked frequently. You immediately stood straight up when you saw her, your hand gripped your cane more than it was before - protective; an obvious trait in older siblings." Silence fell over them once again.

"There you go, you see – you were right."  
"_I_ was right? Right about what?" John blanched.  
"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock looked out the window, biting his lip (nervously?) while waiting for John to say something, anything.  
"That ... was amazing."

Sherlock looked towards John, shock and surprise marring his face before replying, "do you think so?  
"Of _course_ it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."  
"That's not what people normally say."  
"What do people normally say?"  
"'Piss off'!" Sherlock smiled briefly at John, who returned the smile before looking back out the window, "like brother, like sister I suppose."_  
_

"What was that?"

"Oh nothing, we're almost here." Sherlock responded quickly, looking back out the window, but this time not waiting for a reply. Silence settled over them once again.


End file.
